One Hundred Cuts
by Screaming Ferret
Summary: My Lecteresque fanfic 100 efforts, in which I attempt to paint pictures in a hundred words.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** An attempt at that drabble thing... If I'd known how much fun this was going to be, I would have done it _years_ ago. My apologies for at least one quiet crossover. Furthermore, the word-count on this thing lies _outrageously_.

**Disclaimer:** There characters herein are the intellectual property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement is intended.

**#01: Beginnings**

With hindsight, it did _not_ begin with an uneasy walk down a cold, subterranean corridor.

I mean, it _was_ a beginning, of sorts, but not _the_ beginning. That came later, at what turned out to be the end – at least of_ that_ chapter.

Strange, how these things turn out.

I didn't know that Memphis would be the last time I saw him, that nearly a decade would pass before I would see him again.

But I think I sensed it, even then, that something _new_ had begun. Something had changed. It was there, in his eyes.

And he never lies.

**#02: Middles**

The sheer beauty of the cycle always staggered him, and moved him to tears.

From a tiny worm of a caterpillar, through pupation to emergence as a creature of delicate beauty. It was so simple, so elegantly profound.

It looked so easy, although experience told him that it was not.

His favourite part was watching them emerge from their confining cocoons, wings damp and crumpled like wet tissue. Then they would struggle upwards towards the light, dry their wings and... fly.

Breathtaking.

He would sit for hours, just watching the pupae. Watching and waiting, urging them on. This was _truth_.

**#03: Ends**

'It's over.' The harshness of his own voice surprised him, and belied his sorrow.

'So she's... dead?' That Pearsall felt the need to voice the question told those in the room all they needed to know.

Dead? Alive? Was there a difference if she was with Lecter?

_A flash of maroon eyes. 'This gift is so very precious, Jack...'_

'Jack?'

He smiled, sad and grim. 'You'll never find a body.'

_Because there wasn't one._ The words hovered, unspoken.

'It's over. Done.'

Silence.

Pearsall broke it. 'Until he kills again.'

'Yes, or...' Crawford could not voice the thought.

_Until she does._

**#04: Insides**

How do you really _know_ someone? How do you really _know_ yourself?

You have to_ look_. It sounds easy, but it isn't. What if you look too deep, and find something that you don't like? Something that frightens you, something you wish you hadn't uncovered? Knowing yourself can be terrifying.

What if someone sees you – deeper and more intimate than you ever wanted, ever thought possible? What then?

You can be torn apart and flayed alive by understanding, or you can be nurtured, loved and protected. Healed. The choice isn't always yours.

I think I learned that the hard way.

**#05: Outsides**

Of the two of them, he was always calm. Still. At first, she found him unreadable.

She never could quite disguise herself. Her anger always showed, and her delight. He teased her sometimes that her face was an open book – although that wasn't strictly true. It just showed in her eyes, and he came to know those moods better than anyone.

His face rarely betrayed an emotion he did not want you to see – and for many, that hint came too late as a warning.

Only she learned to read him without fear; only she was allowed to do so.

**#06: Hours**

The van was cramped and hot, sour with sweat and metal.

Starling shifted her weight a little and winced. Hours in this windowless box, waiting. Keyed up for action – tense with the knowledge that when – _if_ – they got the go, there would be bullets. There would be blood. There always was. People like these almost never came quietly.

She hated the waiting, and hated not knowing when it would come to an end.

The men surrounding her were impatient and grumbling with the inaction, as always.

They just had to wait.

Wait and sweat, think and don't think. Be ready.

**#07: Days**

How long? How _long_?

She was sure it had to be days, although it felt like eternity. Days in this hell hole. Days of the stench of fear and shit, and other things she didn't want to think about.

Days with the ghosts of the girls that had gone before.

No-one was coming. There was just her, the maniac and the maniac's little dog.

But the days of terror granted her were forging her into something new.

With purpose, she knotted ragged lengths of string and gathered scraps. Damned if she was going to end her days here, like this.

**#08: Weeks**

She had been looking forward to this for weeks.

The cold was numbing, or would have been were they not warm in layers of wool and fur and each others' arms.

Behind and below, the city of Reykjavik nestled in its bay. Above, the Arctic night.

It was ablaze; a cathedral of colour arching away to the horizon. No earthly artist could have conceived such a design.

Starling sighed in wonder as the immaterial fires raced and rippled across the black.

'Thank you. I've always wanted to see this.'

He nuzzled close, his breath warm against her cheek. 'You're welcome.'

**#09: Months**

It had been months, and there was _nothing_. Not a trace of either of them. They might as well have vanished into thin air.

Every line in the_ Tattler_ that set out the case progress rang of failure.

_His _failure_._

He hurled the worthless rag across the room.

He was to blame. He practically _gave_ her to the monster. She had hardly known better at the time; and no-one could get in your head like Hannibal Lecter. He'd seen it happen before.

But he had made the choice. He had repeated an old mistake and thought himself clever for it.

**#09: Years**

He struggled to haul in a ragged breath. The pain showed; a testament to its strength.

'Hannibal.' She wrapped her warm hands around his cold fingers.

'Please.' His voice was a rasp. 'It's time.'

She swallowed. Grief gripped her, bleakly unforgiving. 'I... can't...'

'Clarice.' It was hard for him to speak.

She closed her eyes.

'Look at me.'

She couldn't refuse. His eyes held her whole.

'Our years have been...' He fought for strength. 'Wonderful. Beautiful. More that I could have imagined.'

She nodded, throat tight.

'Please.'

The needle slipped in smoothly.

'I love you,' he whispered.

And was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**#11: Red**

The predawn flight took off as scheduled, although Clarice Starling barely noticed. Red-eyed passengers clung to wakefulness with newspapers and coffee, or else snored softly in their reclining seats.

It was over. Catherine Martin was as good as dead, and all because of an egotistical little jerk who wanted the lion's share of the credit. Of course Dr Lecter had clammed up.

It was her failure, and she found that she did not like the taste.

It would only be a day or so before the body would be dumped – and found.

Damn Chilton and damn the man's selfish ambition.

**#12: Orange**

The dirty orange glow of streetlights illuminated the road. The lights of other vehicles were bright blurs.

She drove; intent on her task. The window was down and the night air was refreshing.

The journey was a long one – they were taking it in turns to drive, losing themselves in a continent of old European roads, towns and picturesque villages. It had become necessary to leave Stockholm.

Dr Lecter slept. Like Starling, he had the trick of napping, cat-like, whenever and wherever he required to.

Sometimes, she liked to watch him sleep. There was just something endearingly vulnerable about it.

**#13: Yellow**

Butter melted gently in the pan.

'What's that for?'

Dr Lecter looked up from preparing shallots. 'That is for the main course, Paul.'

'Oh.' Krendler smiled vaguely. 'Where's Starling?'

Since the doctor had happened to mention that Clarice Starling may be joining them for dinner, Krendler had asked for her several times. The drugs had affected his cognitive abilities, but Dr Lecter was patient with his guest.

'I'm gonna have her,' Krendler confided, speech slurred. 'She thinks she's better than everyone, but she's just a stuck-up cock-tease.' He nodded his head slowly. 'Yeah...'

'Oh, I doubt that,' Dr Lecter said.

**#14: Green**

Friends and family asked her about the ring sometimes. On those occasions, Mapp simply said that it had been a gift from a good friend she had lost years ago. This had the benefit of largely being true.

Sometimes, though, she'd come close to confessing – to confiding the dark secret to a loved one. It was not an easy thing to know, and it could keep her awake at night.

Why didn't she say something? The reasons seemed to vary with the seasons and her moods, but she usually told herself that it was a dangerous secret _not_ to keep.

**#15: Blue**

Masses of flowers sprawled across the high meadow in rampant profusion. Forget-me-nots, mind-your-own-business, cowslips and orchids in an ecstasy of growth under a cobalt sky.

The mountains were vibrant in purples, blues and greens with crowns of white. High above a pair of choughs tumbled earthwards in a breathtaking display.

They took their coffee on the balcony, savouring the clear Carpathian air.

Dr Lecter gestured at the view, with the air of one who had just commanded the glorious scene into being. 'What do you think?'

'It's absolutely beautiful,' she breathed.

He smiled, and the smile reached his eyes. 'Indeed.'

**#16: Purple**

The boy held out the plump, richly-coloured aubergine, and the little girl laughed in delight.

She took the fruit, squeezing it with chubby hands, and pressed it to her cheek.

'It is purple,' he said clearly and carefully. 'Mischa's favourite colour is purple.'

The high summer sun beat down on the old castle gardens. The thunder of artillery was not yet over the horizon, and they had not seen a single German bomber. The war seemed very far away.

'Purple,' he said again, smiling at his little sister. She smiled too, showing off her new baby teeth.

'Ur-bble,' she giggled.

**#17: Brown**

She nearly laughed out loud when Crawford told her what the lab had said about the scrap of notepaper they had found in the toilet of the doctor's cage after his escape.

_Almost exactly the same shade as Chilton's hair._

It was darkly funny, and because of that, the tiny, guilty squeak of laughter that nearly escaped her was wholly inappropriate. The clock was ticking on Catherine Martin, and all they had was the chief colouring agent of shit.

His metallic voice still resonated in her mind, gently mocking.

_Oh Clarice, you need to get more fun out of life._

**#18: Black**

The castle was a museum now, and busy.

Naturally, its provenance as the birthplace of Hannibal Lecter attracted many visitors of the more ghoulish sort.

Prowling, she wondered if that appellation applied to her, too. She wasn't here for the exhibits, after all.

She tried to picture the boy with Mischa in the courtyard, or walking with his tutor. He was happy here once.

But there was nothing of him now, just old stone and the hubbub of tourists.

Black swans still lived on the moat. She tore up bread for them, and smiled at the antics of the cygnets

**#19: White**

Fresh blood like crimson roses, splashed across his prison whites. At his feet, the corrections officer, skull a bloody lump of raw meat and broken bone.

The other one crawled off across the floor, slow and painful. Too slow to escape.

Dr Lecter took his time, knowing he had a while before they would be missed. The golden notes of Bach filled the hall, a beautiful contrast to the damage he had done.

He had a little while, and he got to work.

Soon, the whites were exchanged for a uniform, and he lay on the floor, gurgling Pembry's blood.

**#20: Colourless**

The sky was colourless; the air smelled of snow.

Dr Lecter hefted their bags into the car, unhurried even now.

Starling exited the house, a military-grade Russian shotgun in hand.

'Loaded for bear, my dear?' He was amused.

She raised an eyebrow. 'You never know.' She kept a wary eye – and an ear – on the sky as the Bentley purred to life. Helicopters were a distinct possibility – amongst other hardware.

This wasn't the first time they'd had to leave in haste, and it was unlikely to be the last. If the cavalry caught up, it wasn't going to be _quiet_.


	3. Chapter 3

**#21: Friends**

'Clarice, if there was something wrong, you would tell me? Right?'

Starling could read concern in Mapp's eyes. 'I'm fine,' she said.

Mapp frowned slightly. 'But the fish-market and Brigham, and now... this...'

'Krendler's an asshole,' Starling took a pull on her Jack-and-Coke.

'I meant this new case.'

'You mean Dr Lecter.'

'Yeah.' Mapp was uncharacteristically hesitant. 'You always call him that. Give him his title.'

Starling set her glass down and met Mapp's brown eyes. 'Well, he is. And it's polite.' She gave a wry smile. 'It doesn't do to be rude to Dr Lecter.'

'So you're fine?'

'Yep.'

**#22: Enemies**

'I am not your enemy, Clarice.'

_No, you are far, far more than that_... The thought was like molten iron in her mind. She hoped it didn't show on her face.

Her hand was warm in his.

They were both silent for a long moment. Still, and wary in the silence.

_Not your enemy_. His words made her feel like laughing and crying at one and the same time. No, he was not her enemy. Her enemy sat at the other end of the table, his skull open, chewing on his own frontal lobes.

The smell was really quite delicious.

**#23: Lovers**

The ancient market was older than Christ, and replete with the tastes and smells, and all the colour of the East.

They ambled through the thronging multitudes. He kept his arm around her slender waist, and pointed out some of the more unusual and beautiful wares.

Strange, really, how _giddy_ this made him. Like a teenage boy on his first date with the girl of his dreams.

He was unable to resist when, laughing, she tugged him into an alcove, and pulled his head down for a powerful kiss.

Totally unable to resist, and he found he didn't want to.

**#24: Family**

The pretty young woman on the doorstep was a journalist.

Surprised and puzzled, he nevertheless asked her in and made coffee. The kids charged around in the yard with the dogs and a basketball.

'My wife's at work,' he confessed, no longer embarrassed by this fact. 'I'm a house-husband.'

The young woman smiled. 'Mr Starling, can I ask you some questions about your sister?'

He frowned, and then the penny dropped. 'Clarice.' He was uncomfortable. He had read of her disappearance.

'When did you last see her?'

'Years ago... She phones at Christmas. She always sends something for the kids.'

**#25: Strangers**

The last time she saw Crawford, they had both changed.

He was grey and old, tired and worn. She... well. She was angry.

'Starling, it won't do you any good to fight them like this.' He shuffled to his chair and sat, looking up at her. 'You've got to be patient.'

'Patient, my ass.' She regretted the crudity as soon as she had said it. 'This isn't right, Mr Crawford.'

He looked away. 'Starling...'

She knew he couldn't help her, then. She knew he wouldn't. It really_ was_ over.

When she left his office that last time, they were strangers.

**#26: Team-mates**

'She's a cold fish,' the older agent proclaimed, cradling his warm coffee in cold fingers. Steam rose from the plastic cup.

'Hot enough if you're Hannibal the Cannibal,' another agent remarked, raising laughter.

'It's pretty fucked-up.'

'Hell, if you were a psycho killer who hadn't seen a woman in years, wouldn't you?' More laughter, and agreement.

'Starling's a good agent,' one man growled, straightening and meeting the grins of the others with a glare. 'She's got guts, and more brains than some of you lot.'

'As long as she doesn't keep them in the refrigerator,' someone murmured, to general amusement.

**#27: Parents**

He laid the bones out with care.

Papa Starling was hollow on the table, and for all that, he exerted a gravitational pull on his daughter's life that belied his current lack of substance.

It was the duty of parents to love and nurture those they brought into the world. What most people never realised was this; they do almost as much harm as good.

What would Papa Starling make of her choices so far? What would he make of the events that had led her to this moment?

The trick was to understand, and then to _let it go_.

**#28: Children**

The street-children hurled themselves after the football, bare feet scuffing up clouds of ochre dust. Dogs wove in and out of the scrum, yipping in excitement.

The elegant couple were incongruous in this street, and gained curious glances for it. But they walked as if they owned the world.

The ball careened into a wall, and bounced back towards the couple.

The gentleman was fast, catching the ball before it could touch his lady's cashmere coat.

There were wary stares from the children, thin faces apprehensive. But the lady laughed and took the ball, tossing it back into the pack.

**#29: Birth**

The doctor paused, sweeping his gaze around the room. The table glittered with silver in the light; the scent of the flowers was as delicate as the finest wine.

There was little more he could do here, without being overly-fussy.

Paul Krendler mumbled and drooled to himself in the kitchen; a guest at this debutante dinner. But not the guest of honour. That role belonged to another.

He glanced up to the ceiling as he heard a minute creak from the floorboards.

This night would tell its own story. Dr Lecter hoped it would be the birth of something beautiful.

**#30: Death**

The architect of these deaths was a master. A true artist.

The design was shocking and delicate; these corpses aspired to beauty. He followed the thought, hearing orchestrated screaming in the jasmine-scented air. _Beauty and terror, pain and theatre, blood and weeping._

He moved among them, seeing the cuts and strokes of the artist's blade, and the palette of colours he worked with_. Crimson and white, light and shadow..._

It was mesmerising it its scope and daring. He could almost _admire_ it.

The dead rose up like herons taking flight, arms and spines arched, flesh sculpted and wrapped in flowers.


	4. Chapter 4

**#31: Sunrise**

He stayed up to watch the sun rise.

It was such a simple thing, even mundane. After all, it happened every single day. Too easy to take for granted.

He leant against the balcony railings, luxuriating in the cool dawn air. Early morning traffic murmured in the street below, oblivious to his presence. This was sweetness to be savoured.

The rich aroma and warmth of the brandy perfectly complemented the glory of dawn. Banners of colours he had not seen in years blazed across the indigo sky.

Dr Hannibal Lecter saluted the young sun with a raised glass, and smiled.

**#32: Sunset**

'A dance, my lady?'

Taking her hand, he drew her outside into the new snow. She laughed as he took her in his arms and their footsteps crunched as they moved together across the gardens.

The Highland sunset painted broad strokes of blood-red, magenta and gold, chasing the icy shadows of winter white. Their breath steamed in the air, but the cold did not touch them.

Here was warmth; here was energy and fire in their closeness. Starling savoured the heat of him as the crimson sun retreated, conceding to night.

She met his eyes and smiled. 'I love you.'

**#33: Too Much**

'She's got to go.' Krendler smacked his fist into his palm for emphasis as he paced the plush carpet. 'Love-notes from a psychopath? From _Lecter?_ It's too much. She's a liability.'

Others were nodding, but no-one spoke.

'You disagree, Jack?' Noonan was perceptive.

'I do.' Crawford paused briefly to marshal his thoughts. 'She's safer here with us, where we can protect her. If we let her go, only God knows what he might do to her.'

'That's not our problem,' Krendler snapped. 'The security of the Bureau is at stake.'

_So is a life_. But Crawford did not say it.

**#34: Not Enough**

Starling gunned the engine, and the Mustang snarled and leapt forward into the mist-wreathed fields. She was sharp, she was hard and she was damn angry.

There was no time. No time to plan; just moments in which to act. _And you think too much anyway_.

What if she was too late? _Definitely don't think about that._

She had to believe she would be in time.

It was almost funny, really. An ex-FBI agent racing through the dark to rescue the most wanted man in the civilised world. She would have laughed if she wasn't so afraid for his life.

**#35: Sixth Sense**

She knew someone had been here, prowling through the case-files, pawing over her notes, examining the lurid crime-scene photographs on the walls.

Oh, nothing had changed, but she knew it nonetheless. And she didn't think she needed to be a Great Detective to figure out whom. It was almost written across the atmosphere of the basement room, and it soured her stomach.

'_Don't you feel eyes, Clarice...?' A metallic whisper._

She felt them, all right. Damn Krendler, and damn his hungry eyes and clammy hands.

Starling shrugged back into her jacket and left, striding for the stairs. She needed air.

**#36: Smell**

He was surrounded by her scent, immersed in it. Warm, earthy body-tones, the soft scent of cherry, a hint of winter pine from her evening walk.

Glorious and unique. He would recognise it anywhere.

She lay beside him, light against him, trusting and vulnerable in her sleep. He drank her in like wine.

His own scent was mingled with hers now, and had been since that night on the Chesapeake. It made his heart race, that heady mixture that was delicately _Clarice_, and his own rich, musky spiciness.

Completely, deliciously inextricable; it claimed her as his, and he as hers.

**#37: Sound**

Few sounds are more unnerving than the steel clang of prison gates behind you as you go down into the dark to face something they call _monster_.

Trust me, I know.

Your footsteps are hollow on the stone, and you can almost hear old screams and curses bleeding from the walls. It's like nothing else on earth – you can't help but suspect you've left the world behind and descended into nightmare.

He has a bone-saw voice, smooth and rasping. It cuts, and you bleed, and it stays with you long after the echoes of steel and madness have faded away.

**#38: Touch**

Clarice Starling knew about the power of a simple touch, the energy that could be borne in a single moment of contact. It could trap you, raise the hair on the back of your neck, stop your heart and start it again.

Her fingertips explored the planes of his face, lightly traced the line of his jaw. His eyes slowly closed, he tilted his cheek towards her like a cat, a growl of pleasure deep in his throat.

The shiver that ran through his whole body was one she had crafted, and it was energising, intoxicating, powerful and entirely _hers_.

**#39: Taste**

'Are you sure you're ready? The nurses say you're having – bad dreams.'

She smiled thinly. 'The clinic staff have been very kind. But I cannot stay here.'

He looked at the floor, then the wall, and finally at the ceiling. Eventually his gaze came back to her.

'Rachel...'

She glared at him. 'I want to go home. I _need_ to go home.'

He was uncomfortable. _She_ made him uncomfortable.

'Beth has been... um... looking for recipes... without any meat.' He looked away again.

Her stomach twisted; she gulped in a ragged breath.

_The rich taste..._

It would _never _go away.

**#40: Sight**

Weapon braced – ready...

_Go._

Slamming through the door.

She spins, sweeping the room for targets over the sights of her gun, checking the corners.

'Clear!'

Other voices ringing out as they are moving through the warehouse.

'Clear!'

'Clear!'

Advancing, heart thumping...

She tunes it out.

_Focus._

Flicker of movement – _above_. Harsh percussive bangs. Gunfire and shouting.

A target for her sights.

_Breathe._ Squeeze the trigger.

_Target down._

Moving – fast – adrenaline surging.

_Breathe._

Moving – moving... Gun-smoke, cries and yells.

Another target – she takes the shot – target spins and drops.

_Are there more?_

Scanning – eyes locked over sights – nothing... nothing...

_Nothing._

'Clear!'


	5. Chapter 5

**#41: Shapes**

The pattern of days extended into weeks and then months; of psych evaluations, counselling and carefully-managed medication.

The most usual diagnosis was that she was repressing.

She wasn't entirely sure _what_ she was doing, but the shape of the immediate future looked tediously full of prescription drugs and bluntly clumsy analysis.

_I need a good psychiatrist_. The thought actually raised a smile.

They were making noises about letting her go home. About protection – but did she need it? She couldn't quite tell anymore, but she knew they were_ counting_ on it.

She didn't really know how to feel about that.

**#42: Triangle**

There's three of us in this relationship. Myself, my girl - and my beloved brother. The prodigal cripple and criminal mastermind.

I'm going to kill him. I've known it for several years. I'm just operating on some excellent advice; wait until you can get away with it.

That shit is _wisdom_. I was fortunate in my therapist.

Still, I do need brother-dear for a certain mechanical service. It won't take long, and then I think I'll kill him slowly. It's better than he deserves.

I'm looking forward to it, and every time I see his fish-skull face, I smile inside.

**#43: Square**

The Palazzo loomed above the square. Evening cast deep shadows across the stone and the people.

There was no suggestion that this Florentine evening was going to be any different from the rest. Until, however, the man dropped from a high window with a whistle of unspooling electrical cord.

Justin and his friends were there, on the steps below. They saw him fall, saw him jerk up short, and saw the bloody mess of his viscera splatter across the cobbles. They even filmed the result, as their tour-guide screamed.

Justin dined out on the story for quite some time afterwards.

**#44: Circle**

It was Nubian gold, delicate and valuable, and set with blue stones that matched her eyes.

Speechless, she cradled it in her palm and looked up.

He was utterly still, watching, gauging her reaction. His eyes held the unspoken question, and the promise.

'You really...' There was a catch in her voice.

He smiled slightly. 'Yes. For all my life.'

She was trembling.

'Stay with me always,' he whispered.

Starling closed her eyes for a moment, reeling.

'Yes.'

Taking the ring from her unsteady hands, he slid it onto her finger. He drew her into a kiss, and she burned.

**#45: Moon**

The red moon hung low above the horizon, bathing the landscape in reflected light.

The couple swayed together on the terrace, lost in the music and each other. Graceful and elegant, they moved across the stone in perfect step.

In the darkness beyond the garden walls, a lonely wolf howled.

The lady rested her head against her consort's shoulder as they danced.

'You are beautiful,' he murmured and she glanced up at him, the red moonlight in her eyes. 'As beautiful as Artemis,' he said. 'And deadlier.'

Clarice Starling smiled at Dr Lecter. 'Flattery like that will get you _everywhere_.'

**#46: Star**

'Ma'am, could you please step out of the car?' The boyish trooper was country-courteous, new badge gleaming on his chest.

She carefully didn't look at Dr Lecter, in the Mustang's passenger seat. 'Of course.'

Leaving the car, Starling followed the young man round the back of the vehicle.

'Are you aware, ma'am that your tail-light is out?'

'No, Officer. I wasn't'

He studied her with a faintly puzzled expression. 'Do I know you, ma'am? You look very... familiar.'

_Damn it._

It was the last question he asked. Dr Lecter, lethally silent, broke his neck with one swift and practiced movement.

**#47: Heart**

He enjoyed the energetic beauty of the human heart. There was something powerful about its rhythmic thump, and how it fought to beat even when its owner was laid open by the scalpel.

Paralysed on the doctor's table, the subject could only look on in rictus-like horror as the meaty engine in her gaping chest was examined closely.

Dr Lecter hummed as he excised the beating organ. It was satisfyingly heavy in his hands. Then he showed it to the subject as she went into spasms.

'Isn't it a beauty?' He smiled, and the light fled from his victim's eyes.

**#48: Diamond**

'You were right about Catullus,' Barney said as he collected the dinner-tray.

'The Roman poets can be rather brash.' Dr Lecter reclined on his bunk. 'Did you acquire a ticket for the exhibition?'

'Yessir.'

'Excellent. You will let me know what you think?'

'Yes, Dr Lecter. I overheard a conversation just now, outside Dr Chilton's office.' The orderly stacked the tray on the trolley, with the others.

'Eavesdropping, Barney?' The doctor was amused.

'No sir. Just passing. Agent Starling is on her way.'

Dr Lecter raised an eyebrow. 'Mm, and at this hour. To what do we owe the pleasure?'

**#49: Club**

'Clarice.' He took her into his arms and held her. 'How are you feeling?'

'I'm fine,' she said. 'I don't know what came over me.'

'About that...' He hesitated. 'You were not well yesterday morning, or the morning before.'

She nodded. 'I've not been feeling my best. It'll pass.'

'I'm... not so sure.' He laid a hand on her stomach.

It took a moment for her to grasp his meaning, and he saw the sudden flicker of fear in her eyes. 'But... the...'

'Is not always entirely effective.' The fear _hurt_. 'Trust me,' he said softly. 'I _am_ a doctor.'

**#50: Spade**

They stood over the corpse, and Starling swore. 'Damn.'

A teenage boy, awkward in death, lay sprawled in the freshly-turned earth of the rose garden. The back of his head was absent, the result of Starling's expert hand with a pistol.

'What the_ hell_ was he doing here anyway?'

'Trespassing,' Dr Lecter growled. 'However, the major organs_ are_ intact...'

'Darling, is there time? The opera...'

He considered the matter, then sighed. 'I fear we may not have even that, my dear. I don't think this boy was alone.'

Starling swore again. 'You get the car ready; I'll fetch a spade...'


	6. Chapter 6

**#51: Water**

Once, the sight of a bubbling pot could unleash horrors in his mind; memories of cruel events best left to the past.

Since then, he had overcome this difficulty in his career as a hunter of men. Which was highly unfortunate for the policeman he held face-down in a boiling pan of pasta.

Starling stood over the second corpse. 'I think he's dead,' she said, pointedly. 'Can we _go_?'

'It _is_ best to make sure.' Pulling his victim out, he inspected the result. The smell was reminiscent of boiled bacon. 'Another minute and he should be done to a turn...'

**#52: Fire**

'You _wrote_ to Crawford?'

'Mm.' He was nonchalant, watching her anger rise.

'Why? Or don't I _want_ to know?' She bit the words out.

'Well...' he drawled. 'I thanked him for making our introductions...'

'So they know.'

'He did.' A shrug. 'Now he's dead.' He pointed this out, helpfully.

Her eyes flashed magnificently. 'I can't believe you would risk everything to have the last word... Oh, actually, yes I _can_.'

He moved fast, catching her in arms like iron. 'Little Starling, I do not have to explain myself.'

She radiated fury.

Then he cracked a grin, and kissed her firmly.

**#53: Earth**

He watched her run, although she didn't know it. He watched her feet pounding the good brown earth, kicking up little puffs of dust and grit. She moved cleanly, fluidly, from the sunshine to the dappled shade and back again. She had a lean, wolf-like grace; he suspected she could run a long time like that.

Running... running... He smiled to himself as she disappeared around the corner ahead, into the trees. You would have to be fast and clever to hunt and catch Clarice Starling, and equally quick on your feet to keep her.

He did enjoy a challenge.

**#54: Air**

Sometimes they would walk along the cliffs, especially in the evening when the air was cool and tangy with the sea.

Multitudes of gulls would swirl and shriek in a discordant chorus, counterpoint to the distant crashing of the waves against the rocks.

Occasionally he needed moments like this, outside, unfettered and able to simply be and breathe. The asylum could suffocate you if you let it. It seemed to rust in your lungs, and fill your head with a dull ache.

That he could now walk like this with Clarice Starling was the final and best grace of all.

**#55: Spirit**

She was fighting him, and fighting the morphine in her system. He could see the fuzzy calculation in her eyes as she watched him warily.

Stubborn, proud and strong-willed, she was not the sort to capitulate easily. He wondered if she even knew how.

_What to do with you, my little Starling?_

He did not like to see her strength and honour shackled to such unworthy masters. But how to persuade the incorruptible? He knew he did not have long, and still she fought.

_In the kitchen with a candlestick... Dear, dear..._

There was no denying the girl had spirit.

**#56: Breakfast**

Starling stretched, easing cramped muscles in her back and shoulders. 'No-one's moved for _hours_.'

'Huh, it figures. We always get the interesting jobs.' He set down a coffee and a box with a couple of donuts. 'Here ya go – breakfast.'

'Thanks, Jerry.' Starling took up a donut. It was slightly stale. 'I really should learn to eat a decent meal someday.'

The other agent snorted. 'What, my cooking not good enough?'

Starling laughed, and then yawned.

'You should learn to get a good night's sleep, too,' Jerry observed.

It was her turn to snort. 'Chance would be a fine thing.'

**#57: Lunch**

'If you've got a problem with me or the way I work, take it up with the Chief later. In the meantime, get out of my way.' Starling's voice was razor-edged.

'This is bullshit,' her opponent snapped. 'You're in because you're Crawford's favourite. There are agents with more experience...'

'I've been watching this guy,' she growled. 'I _know_ him.'

He stepped up close, trying to intimidate her.

Starling looked up at him, eyes icy. 'We could do this the humiliating way.'

Across the room, a junior agent leaned over to his partner. 'Twenty bucks says she eats him for lunch.'

**#58: Dinner**

'Hannibal, that was exquisite.'

'Fit for a king.'

Praise came in from all sides, the diners clapping and raising glasses. Hannibal Lecter took his bows, eyes twinkling. 'I'm glad that you all enjoyed my little dinner.'

'False modesty, Hannibal?' Rachel teased. 'There was nothing _little_ about this banquet.'

'Hear, hear.' The Duke of Lancaster got to his feet, glass in hand. 'You have converted _this_ vegetarian. A toast, ladies and gentlemen. To Dr Hannibal Lecter and the finest table on this side of the pond.'

'Dr Hannibal Lecter,' they chorused, glasses clinking.

Dr Lecter smiled. 'Your Grace is too kind.'

**#59: Food**

The nearly starving dogs were pathetically eager for the scraps. They bellied forwards, tails thumping the carpet, and wriggled with enthusiasm.

Dr Lecter was careful to be scrupulously fair over the gobbets of raw meat he shared between them. They hadn't had a good meal in days, after all.

'Really quite friendly, aren't you?' He scratched the black and white sheepdog's ears as he fed her Mason's nose. She crunched it noisily, and her companion whined for more.

'Patience,' the doctor counselled, and looked up at Mason. 'A little more off the lips, don't you think? They _are_ rather hungry.'

**#60: Drink**

Starling sipped at her cold beer and allowed her mind to wander. Beside her at the bar, Noble Pilcher and friends were deeply entrenched in a debate over the origins of the wiggle-dance of honey bees. It seemed to be technical stuff.

She wished Ardelia were here. Perhaps they could have engaged in an equally heated discussion over the relative merits of firearms or something.

It wasn't that Pilch was a bad guy – far from it. But the first love in his life had six legs and feelers. It was something to be second on the list - after bugs.


	7. Chapter 7

**#61: Winter**

The hollow-sided wolves watched the boy, arctic eyes intent. Was this prey?

He shuffled; head down, scuffing through snow. Skeletal trees jutted from broken ground. Every now and again, a shell-crater in outlined in white.

They shadowed him, sensing weakness. It had been a hard winter, an apocalyptic winter. And it wasn't over yet.

No birds sang in this forest, and no game followed the trails. All was quiet.

Except – it was not. An unfamiliar sound broke the silence. Clanking – thrumming – iron hearts beating.

The wolves scented strange air. The alpha paused, and the pack melted away into the dark.

**#62: Spring**

She was unaware of the new growth pushing though winter-hardened soil, and unaware of the occasional warmth of spring air. All she knew was the weight of the lamb and the uneven ground she stumbled and struggled across.

Behind her, she was conscious of the cries of the others she couldn't free.

It was a very stupid idea; she knew it even as she took up the task. The creature was heavy, and winter still breathed across the plains in chilly gusts. And anyway, what was the point of saving one?

_One is not all_. The thought kept her going.

**#63: Summer**

The orchard boughs were heavy with new apples. Green-folk hung on the trees, part of the burgeoning life.

They walked hand in hand, enjoying the warmth. The orchards extended across the island, pregnant with harvest-promise.

Far in the distance, the faint echo of skin drums.

Hannibal Lecter paused, cocking his head to one side.

'I hear it.' Starling's hand crept beneath her jacket.

The drum-beat was like a pulse, heavy and thumping.

Above them, gulls cried with cat-like mews. A hare bounded across the heather.

Starling's reaching hand found her Glock.

'I think it's time we left,' Dr Lecter said.

**#64: Fall**

Giving herself up was not the easiest thing she had ever done. If she was being honest, it took hell of a lot of guts.

He was still, his eyes intent on her.

There are various moments in life where people make major decisions. One of those was made here, in this room that was heavy with desire.

The decision was made, and steps were taken even as that need reached what they like to call a fever-pitch.

Sometimes you just have to take the plunge, and worry about the undoubted consequences later. A _lot_ later.

Sometimes, windows just align.

**#65: Passing**

On occasion, he allowed himself to feel the moments passing. Depending on how you looked at it, they were either moments lost to time, or they were moments gained in a dance that would – eventually – have some kind of closure.

He could not, and would not, try to predict the true outcome of this dance, but a great deal of the fun was in not knowing.

Every now and again, he permitted himself the best result as a small fantasy. After all, eight years in a cage encourages a certain desire for freedom.

Even if was only in the mind.

**#66: Rain**

It was pouring down, and she pounded through the rain with a half-grin. There was nothing quite like a damn good downpour to refresh the soul.

Rain sheeted into the gutter, gurgling and swirling. Starling didn't stop, hammering down the empty pavement.

_Exhilarating_.

Cool, clean water rushed down her neck and washed across her shoulders. Her hair was plastered to her head; her tee-shirt clung to her lean frame.

Running in the rain was a pleasure she allowed herself from time to time – it was just one of those silly things that had to be done, and done with enthusiasm.

**#67: Snow**

The snowball came out of left field, and caught him in the side of the head.

For a moment, Hannibal Lecter was too taken aback to retaliate, and Clarice Starling took merciless advantage of this sudden gap in his defences. Snow flew like feathers.

However, it did not take him long to gather his wits, and Starling was forced to dodge sideways, laughing with wicked glee.

He burst one snowball on her forehead, and she dropped to her knees, scooping up handfuls of the stuff.

Her aim was off; they flew wild. He answered with a snowball to the nose.

**#68: Lightning**

Murderously fast, he slashed across the paramedic's throat.

Blood arced across the van, and Dr Lecter shoved the body aside, going for the driver. The bloody scalpel pierced the man's neck with absolute ease, and he died swiftly.

It only took moments for the doctor to haul the body away and take his place at the wheel. The ambulance careened on, racing past other drivers.

Sirens blared and Dr Lecter enjoyed the fact that the traffic melted away before him – before his ambulance. By the time his deception was discovered, he intended to be far away and someone else entirely.

**#69: Thunder**

The barrage filled all the days and nights, rolling across the forests and the lakes.

It shattered the sky from horizon to horizon, a thunderous roar of fire and steel. Shells howled through the trees sometimes, and blasted the landscape. The world was ablaze.

Shells fell closer to the lodge, and the men within were tense.

The old wooden frame shivered as another shell fell nearby, narrowly missing the tank-hulk across the clearing. The enormous percussive thud shook dust and plaster from the ceiling.

The guns were moving closer as the Russians advanced.

Grutas got to his feet. 'We're leaving.'

**#70: Storm**

Harsh white light cast jagged shapes across the floor as lightning split the sky asunder. The stained-glass of the former church's windows was almost as dark as blood in the storm-light.

Candles lit what once had been the nave, and richly illuminated the lady dancing in the light. She swirled with a predator's grace, crimson gown trailing her steps.

At the piano, her Count. Pale and shadowed, he excised the notes of the music with long-fingered elegance. And the lady in crimson danced across the old stone as thunder rolled outside.

The echoing howl of wolves was the perfect counterpoint.


	8. Chapter 8

**#71: Broken**

Some things – some people – are far more interesting broken than fixed. Dr Lecter knew that very well; perhaps better than most. A true artist could sculpt almost endless wonders with the right subject.

It was just that kind of_ interesting_, fractured genius that had put him into this present, rather unsatisfactory situation in the first place.

And why, eventually he sent him the Red Dragon. Another gift - yet only the latest in a series of them, each more dangerous than the last. A token of regard from one monster to another.

_Let's see what you make of him, Will..._

**#72: Fixed**

She stepped softly, bare feet sinking into the Persian carpets. Ahead, light spilled out into the hallway from the study door. It was just ajar, and she paused.

One man in a dark coat, pistol raised. Another moving forward with understandable caution, handcuffs in one hand.

'Hannibal Lecter, you are under arrest.' She knew that voice.

She moved into the room unseen. There was the gentle _pop_ of a silenced pistol, and the first man crumpled.

The one that had spoken turned, and stopped in surprise. '_Starling._'

'Sorry, Frank,' she said and dropped him with two rounds above the heart.

**#73: Light**

He was glad to close that evening. The church was popular with visitors, especially the crypts with their plundered pre-Columbian stonework.

It was atmospheric underground, monsters and demons leering from shadows.

This rarely bothered him – these gods were dead – but today was different.

It was nothing, really, yet... He had been showing a brash group of American students around. One had made an inappropriate comment to a young woman on the arm of an older gentleman.

It was silly, but he could not forget the light in the gentleman's eyes. As demonic as the Aztec gods, and somehow as bloody.

**#74: Dark**

When the power went out, the darkness was complete. Fear was an icy knot in her belly – she had to fight to keep from hyperventilating.

_Where was he?_

The big basement was a maze of uneven stonework and grim secrets. She moved with care, horribly conscious of her vulnerability.

Catherine was silent at last, and Starling strained her senses for any clue to the suspect's whereabouts.

Then something delicate brushed against her face, and she nearly screamed herself.

_Moths._

There was just a hint – just a breath or a whisper of cloth, and she spun towards the sound and fired.

**#75: Shade**

The river rippled across the golden-green landscape, dappled in silver and bronze.

They lounged in the shade of a great English oak, comfortable on a tartan rug.

On the river, people were messing about in boats.

The doctor topped up their glasses with a deft hand, and Starling leaned back against him with a contented sigh.

Nearby, the bells of the old city's dreaming spires rang out the hour, startling birds into flight.

It was a whole world away from her old life, but even now she sometimes wondered if she really _had_ fallen down the rabbit hole after all.

**#76: Who?**

Dr Lecter watched her sleep, still and silent in the corner of her lounge. She sprawled in her chair, utterly unaware of his presence.

He could not stay for long, and it was dangerous even coming here at all, but the opportunity had been too good to resist.

It was impossible to know how the game would play out, although he had considered various options. It was really all down to her in the end.

It depended on who she was, in her true self. Her so-called colleagues clearly had no idea, and he wondered if she really knew herself.

**#77: What?**

_What does Dr Lecter like?_ The question sounded simple enough when you said it, but she was beginning to have the suspicion that some of the answers were more... complicated.

Wines and books were a matter for some research, but were certainly not an insurmountable problem.

Neither were cars, or music, or even food. Much of this had been documented before. The clues were there.

No, things got a lot more complicated when she considered what _else_ the doctor liked.

_Me_. It felt like a forbidden thought, one that she had to examine in private.

And what did _that_ mean?

**#78: Where?**

Search teams were out for days, with little success. The media was in a frenzy. How could a well-known member of the Department of Justice simply vanish into thin air?

That he had help was considered obvious. Krendler's less-than-friendly relationship with the former Agent Starling was known to their superiors. The name of Hannibal Lecter was whispered in the corridors of power, although they did their best to keep this out of the media.

For days, people asked questions like 'where?' and 'how?' Then, when they found him, the question became; where were the contents of the unfortunate man's skull?

**#79: When?**

When do you decide that enough is definitely enough and that you're not going to take it anymore?

When your back is against the wall? When you realise that you are not _like them_, and that the world you live in means next to nothing to you?

Or do you take the initiative? Do you get out while you still can, before it is far too late?

Neither option is easy. Sacrifices must always be made. But when the time comes, you just have to do it. Because if you don't – that's it. It _will_ kill you in the end.

**#80: Why?**

There were various things Ardelia Mapp thought she would ask her friend if she ever saw her again, and somewhere near the top of that list was 'why?'

Why Hannibal Lecter? Of all the men in the world, why _him? _It seemed impossible to understand.

Sometimes, she considered that it made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Then, in bleaker moments, she thought that perhaps it did, it was simply that she had never really known Starling at all. Yet the emerald ring remained on her finger, and she just had to trust that Clarice actually _did_ know what she was doing.


	9. Chapter 9

**#81: How?**

'How is it, Miss Starling that you survived three days with Lecter?'

'I don't know. And Dr Lecter didn't kill Mr Krendler either.'

'True. But now Krendler wears nappies and plays with dolls. Yet here you are – he even patched you up. Why?'

'I don't know.'

'Where is he, Miss Starling?'

'I don't know.'

'I think you're lying, Miss Starling. I think you know why you're still alive. I think you know a lot more than you're telling us.'

Outside the room, others watched through glass.

'She's damaged. Lecter's got to her.'

'Can we use that? Can we use _her?_'

**#82: If**

She moved as quietly as possible, slipping through the dark beneath the trees. Mist crawled and eddied, snaking around her like a live thing.

She skirted the outbuildings, bats swirling above in the night. The old barn was her target, alive with light and shadows.

Screams spilt the silence, sudden and shocking. She froze for a second, thrumming with tension. Monsters were abroad tonight.

_If you go down to the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise..._

The old, half-forgotten snippet of nursery rhyme rose to the forefront of her mind, and wrought a grim smile.

Yes, indeed. _Me._

**#83: And**

'And there's another thing.' Ardelia waved a chopstick for emphasis. 'What happened to your bug man?

Starling looked up from her takeaway carton. 'Pilcher?'

'Yep. He was all over you a couple of months ago.'

'Well...' Starling shrugged. 'He was okay...' She trailed off.

Ardelia raised her eyebrows. 'Go on...'

'Not my type.'

'Too many creepy-crawlies? Sure. How about Griffiths?'

Starling laughed. Ardelia was a keen matchmaker. 'Griffiths from Fraud? Really?'

'Let me guess. Not your type?'

'Got it.'

'When you do find that elusive guy that _is_ your type, be sure and let me know.'

Starling grinned. 'You bet.'

**#84: He**

Surging forwards, he slammed her into the refrigerator. She gasped for breath.

She struggled, but he was stronger. Teeth bared, eyes burning.

'Clarice...' A warning growl.

She was_ absolutely_ aware of him, of his warm weight pressed against her. Unmoving. His heart beat fast; it drummed against her chest.

Almost as fiercely as her own.

He was speaking. She dragged air into her lungs.

His eyes bored into hers. He was so close...

She could not – _she would not_ – relent...

Then the cuffs slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers as he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his own.

**#85: She**

She was fast, and dangerously so. This had to be over quickly.

Greater mass gave him an advantage, and he charged, bulling her slender form into the big refrigerator and knocking the wind from her.

_Pinned_.

Muscles rippled in her arms as she struggled to push him back. Her teeth were bared, wild eyes locked on his. There was no surrender here.

_Magnificent._

His every sense was totally alive – and_ hungry_. She was so close...

Close enough to taste; and that was exactly what he wanted to do.

The savagery of their battle belied his feelings; his kiss betrayed them.

**#86: Choices**

She stood by the high, arched windows, arms wrapped around herself, looking out into the dark.

He busied himself with the familiar routine, the hypodermic glinting wickedly in the candlelight. He drew off another measure.

There was a whisper of movement. He looked up and she was there.

Clarice Starling studied him intently. The candlelight beautifully picked out the planes of her face, the delicacy of her cheekbones.

He caught his breath as she placed her hand over his own, covering the needle.

'Hannibal.' Her voice was quiet and firm. 'No more.'

She touched his cheek. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

**#87: Life**

He screamed until his throat was raw. He screamed, but no-one came.

There would be no Federal agents to rescue him. This he knew, for he had been told.

He screamed anyway. Hope springs eternal, after all.

He screamed, fighting the restraints with a wildness that he did not know he possessed.

He screamed and fought until all he could do was sob, soiled and broken on the gurney.

There he remained, until at last, someone came. And then, Frederick begged.

'Please... _I don't want to die_...'

Dr Lecter smiled, and hell was in the smile.

'Don't worry. You won't.'

**#88: School**

'Honey, what happened? You been fighting?' Her father tipped her face up to examine the livid purple bruise splashed across her eye.

'It's nothin'. She pulled away, mulish.

'Clarice, I'll have the truth please.' Her father was patient and stubborn.

She scowled. 'Billy was pickin' on some of the little ones again.'

Her father set his jaw. 'Time I went and saw the Dunns about this.'

'Da, no.' Clarice was stubborn too. 'I got this. It's mine to deal with.'

'Honey, you can't settle everything with fists.'

'I know, Da. It just makes me mad, is all. It's not right.'

**#89: Work**

'Bringing work home with you again?' Ardelia Mapp lifted the cover on a case-file, and winced at the photographs beneath. 'Jeez, girl. This stuff isn't good for you.'

Starling looked up from her notes. 'I have to, 'Delia. I have to find him.'

'Yeah, you and half the Bureau.' She frowned. 'But it is just you, isn't it?'

Starling shrugged. 'I can find him.'

Mapp looked unconvinced. 'You sure you should? Alone? You know what happened to the guy that caught him.'

'Graham? I won't let that happen to me. And I won't be alone, Ardelia. I'll have backup.'

'Sure.'

**#90: Home**

A house is a house, but a house isn't always a home. You always sort of know that, and most people manage to turn a house into a home. I never did.

I don't think I ever really knew how. It was just – out of reach. Unimportant.

That's changed, lately.

A house is where you sleep. It's where you keep your stuff and eat your meals.

Home is different. It has life, energy, love, a sense of _place._

He made that for me.

It's strange, the places you've got to go to before you find out where you really _belong_.


	10. Chapter 10

**#91: Birthday**

There are plenty of ways to spoil a girl on her birthday. You can buy flowers, chocolates, take her to a show... hell, you can mortgage your house and buy her diamonds if you like.

He would do all those things, and more. He never really needs an excuse.

It has become a little ritual. He asks me as we lay together in bed, his voice a husky whisper in my ear.

He would gift me anything, even the blood and flesh of my mortal enemy. Without hesitation.

Treatment like that can_ really_ go to a girl's head, you know.

**#92: Christmas**

'Sure?'

'Sure. Go, have a great time. Give my best to your Mom.'

Ardelia drew her into a hug. 'I will, Clarice. Your gift is on the table; don't open it until Christmas, you hear?

'I hear. Same to you.' Starling hugged her back.

Outside, a horn blared.

Starling released her friend and gave her a push towards the door.

Days later, a delivery.

Starling answered and received a box wrapped in brown paper. Signing the delivery note, she took the parcel and retreated to the lounge.

There was a card. In a fine copperplate hand, it read simply '_Clarice_.'

**#93: Thanksgiving**

The tiny Alpine church was bedecked in autumn flowers and fruits of the harvest. Candles lit the altar, those that had not burned out.

Starling lit another.

'What are you doing?'

She glanced up at him. 'You light one to give thanks.'

'I'm aware of the custom.' He slid his arms around her and rested his chin against her shoulder. 'For what are you giving thanks?'

She leaned back against him and chuckled.

'_Starling_...' He _always_ had to know.

'Dr_ Lecter_...' She mimicked. 'For you.'

He shook with laughter. 'That has got to be a first. Very nearly blasphemy, surely?'

**#94: Independence**

'Sure?'

'I think I'll manage.' He was amused, but courteous enough not to show it – much.

Her eyes narrowed. 'I suppose you're big enough and ugly enough...'

'You wound me.' He grinned. 'Go. Have fun.'

Quite suddenly, she didn't want to leave. From his raised eyebrow, she gathered that he saw her hesitation.

'I'll be here when you get back.' His voice was warm and retained his amusement.

She turned to leave and he moved swiftly, catching her in his arms. 'I'm not going anywhere.' Then, he proceeded to kiss her soundly.

She got her breath back and smiled. 'Good.'

**#95: New Year**

The dragons whirled, snaking around each other with serpentine precision. Firecrackers sparked and popped up and down the lantern-hung street.

The crowds ebbed and flowed with the twining of the dragons, shouting and laughing.

It was impossible not to follow the beat of the drums and the enthusiasm of the people. Of course, they would have been less sanguine if they had known Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling strolled amongst them that night, but they did not.

Chinatown was alive with the party, and the party was alive with energy. Lecter's two-step imitated Starling's as they danced after the dragons.

**#96: Honesty**

Honesty is a pretty lonely word. I'd come to realise that quite a while ago. Sometimes I suspected that it was just some kind of bad habit I'd picked up from my Da. I mean, who actually tells the_ truth_ these days?

So I was rather surprised to come across_ real_ honesty – not the garden-variety 'does my bum look big in this' kind – but the sort that carries the weight of evidence and proofs – in an asylum.

Looking back, I see that I was naive. After all, you have few things to lose if you're stuck in a concrete box.

**#97: Fear**

Pride kept him from admitting it, but the monster terrified him. He told himself that the monster was bound, was kept apart and buried in stone and steel – but it made no difference.

The beast did not require freedom, as such, to walk the shadowed halls of his dreams, nor to wield the weapons of words like steel claws, scratching bloody wounds into his psyche.

Yes, pride kept him from admitting it, but there was no need for words between old... friends. The demon eyes and the smile locked behind the mask said; _I know_.

Every time. Every _damned_ time.

**#98: Courage**

Courage does not come from nothing. It needs foundation, a bedrock slab of strength and determination. The world can twist, slant and fall away, but as long as the foundation remains then the courageous will stagger once more to their feet.

Courage does not come free. It is bought with loss and pain, the taste of fear, the fire of passion.

Survivor's courage, warrior's courage... Courage to face it all - to look and not turn away. Courage to consume, and to be consumed. Courage to stand and burn, to fly and to fall...

She never ceased to amaze him.

**#99: Hate**

He never believed that there was a knife-edge line between love and hate.

Now he was older and wiser, he knew the truth. They were so far apart that they were the same damn thing back round again.

Hate was cold, clinical machines and tubes, love was life they granted. Hate was pain and vengeance, but love was in the execution.

They were inseparable; love and hate, life and death, body and mind, him and the machines.

Sometimes he wondered about what would come after. What when there was nothing left to hate but the machines that made him live?

**#100: Love**

They say that love is poetry, and they say it's a delicate thing, like a tiny bird or a fragile butterfly.

That's not my experience.

Love came to me with eyes that have seen hell, and forged it anew with every fresh cut. Love has a razor kiss, and it's red with blood. The poets didn't mention that.

Nor did they tell me there would be no escape.

But I suppose there's poetry in the unalterable trajectory of a bullet, or the crushing gravitational dance of binary stars locked in vampiric embrace.

I love him - and I will _never_ stop.


End file.
